Under a Raging Moon

SEVEN

Monday, August 22nd

1609 hours

A gang meant family, plain and simple. It provided what kids either didn’t have in their own families or just didn’t want from them. Until people realized that, they would never understand the power of the gangs. It was about being a part of something. Being accepted.

Gerald Anthony Trellis knew all about that. He did everything he could to be black. He talked like the gangsters, dressed like them, walked like them. He listened to rap. Most of all, he cursed his white skin, an accident of birth. He knew what some of the racist white boys in River City called him-wigger. White nigger. They meant it as an insult, but he accepted the word with a measure of pride, even though it was the only thing that kept him from being fully accepted.

In a way, he should be thankful that he was from River City. Demographics forced the Compton Crips who’d relocated up here to allow whites into their gang activity. And Trellis, who called himself T-Dog, was the number one recruit of Morris the Cat.

Morris lay on T-Dog’s couch with earphones on, listening to one of T-Dog’s many rap CDs. T-Dog gave Morris pretty much anything he wanted. CDs, booze, a place to crash. Whatever the gangster wanted. Morris had the juice here in the RC, and so he held T-Dog’s ticket to full acceptance. Plus, The Cat liked him. Only last week he had mentioned sponsoring T-dog on a trip down to Compton to get beat in.

Man, to get beat in by a Compton Crip set! T-Dog felt a rush of pride. His whole life, everyone told him what a loser he was. His father, on the rare occasion when he was around, just beat on him. His mother had all these stupid rules she expected him to follow. She didn’t understand that no one ever got anywhere playing by the rules. A man got somewhere by making his own rules.

School wasn’t for him, either. Why should he sit politely in class and listen to some adult talk about something stupid when he made more money working with Morris than they did? How many 17-year-olds could afford a brand new car?

No, the Crips gave him power and he liked it. Soon, Morris would make sure he got beat in, making him a full member and giving him even more power.

The thing was, though, Morris had been pretty distracted and pissed off lately. He hadn’t mentioned the beat-in for over a week. He spent all his time bitching about everything, especially that white cop who busted him. T-Dog had never seen Morris so enraged. After he picked him up from jail that night, Morris screamed for almost an hour. Most of what he said hadn’t made much sense. Or at least, T-dog didn’t understand it. He’d been upset over something concerning what the other guys in the car were going to say about the way that cop treated him.

T-dog didn’t see what the problem was. Hell, getting busted by five-oh and keeping your mouth shut was another way to earn your stripes. But T-Dog knew he wasn’t as smart as Morris. The guy was in charge not only because of his juice but also because of his brains. He tried to listen to everything Morris said, so that he could learn from him.

The one thing that he’d learned about the most was juice. Street credibility. It was way more important than money or bitches or cars. If a man had juice, he had the world. So, with that in mind, T-Dog started to formulate a small plan. He thought it was one that would satisfy Morris’ rage and give them both some juice. Maybe even enough to get him beat in.

After all, where could he get the ultimate juice?

1654 hours

Eyes droopy and his breathing shallow, James Mace sat in the small chair in the corner of the apartment bedroom. On the floor beside him he’d discarded the small needle that had delivered all three of them to this land of floating stillness. A bent and burnt spoon lay on the nightstand next to a wet, deflated cotton ball.

Mace blinked slowly, forcing his eyes to open again. He knew his face bore an impassive mien, but he imagined himself with an idiot’s grin.

Things were getting worse. There was a time when his grin would be real, not imaginary. He couldn’t even enjoy his fix anymore. It was like taking aspirin now, taking away his itches, aches and nausea. His skin and clothing were disgustingly dirty, but he didn’t care. It kept the drug inside longer. Besides, cleanliness was overrated.

He looked over at the bed. Leslie and Andrea, both nude, lay motionless, their limbs wrapped around each other. He wished that he had more than a passing drive for sex. He hadn’t slept with either of them for weeks. He didn’t care that they were occasionally doing each other in his absence. Both of them were worthless, anyway. On the last two store jobs, he had to call another whore, Carla, to drive. Crack-head Carla. She worked cheap and quickly realized that driving a car was more profitable and less dangerous than hooking.

He’d banged Carla twice last week, more to subjugate her than for any real need for sex. A woman was more easily controlled once you’d screwed her. Made ’em loyal. At least Carla had shown a little more enthusiasm than Leslie or Andrea had in a long while.

Being the man was hard, Mace groused from the depths of his floating world. He had to be responsible for everything. Even in the midst of what should have been his euphoria, he was thinking of his next fix and how he would get the money for it. Maybe he could relax during that high.

His thoughts drifted to the last robbery. Goddamn that had been sweet. That goofy little clerk tried to pull a gun on him, and he fucking wasted the little geek. Blew a hole right in his cheek and pumped another one into his gut. That had been the greatest thrill Mace had experienced since Panama. The power rush was incredible. It made him feel alive. Hell, he needed the heroin just to come down from that high.

His eyes drooped closed and he took a deep breath. When he opened them, he saw the women were awake. Leslie gently stroked Andrea along the curve of her hip. Mace felt no stirring in his loins at the sight. He thought instead of his next fix. More than that, he thought about how he would get the money.

And how good it was going to feel to take out the enemy.

1712 hours

Stefan Kopriva awoke feeling he had forgotten something. Everything seemed normal, but he knew there was something out of sync.

Then he saw Katie MacLeod lying next to him, felt her soft breath on his shoulder.

Kopriva almost jumped in surprise as the events of the previous night came rushing back to him. He willed himself to lie still while he recalled everything that had happened. It reminded him of being drunk and forgetting everything in the morning. Only he hadn’t been drinking.

After he finished booking Belzer and putting the drugs on property, a homicide had been called in at the Qwik-Stop. Inside, a twenty-some-year-old clerk had been shot, probably by Scarface.

Both he and Katie guarded the crime scene for the remainder of the night. Katie’s demeanor hadn’t changed from earlier in the shift. After the scene was secured, they’d gone to breakfast for their seven and she finally told him the problem. Her fiancee had broken up with her after seven months of engagement and a year and a half years together. With no explanation.

Stef, you are a jerk, he told himself.

He and MacLeod went through the Academy together. For whatever reason, that gave them a bond that made talking easier. After the shift secured, they went out for coffee and talked some more. Katie seemed to relax a little more once they were out of uniform. When she became upset, Kopriva offered to take her home. She’d wanted to talk some more. Kopriva lived not too far from the coffee shop, so they’d gone there for tea and to continue talking.

Katie broke down and cried before Kopriva had even gotten the hot water for tea on the stove. Through her tears, he gathered that she thought she’d loved her fiancee, but now wasn’t so sure. It hurt to be dumped but there might there also be a sense of relief.

Kopriva understood some of what she felt. His luck with women bordered on abysmal. He hated one-night stands, but had been involved in little else for the past year. He didn’t know what hurt like hers felt like, but he knew about loneliness.

Around nine in the morning, tired, cried out and grateful, Katie had leaned into him for a comforting hug, which he’d happily given.

Carefully, Stef. Her breath now plumed lightly against his shoulder. He shifted his position in bed and tried to get comfortable. It didn’t work.

How did it really happen?

He hadn’t intended for anything to happen. Had he? He remembered that he kissed the top of her head and told her everything would be all right. He remembered how warm she felt against him and how good her hair smelled. Katie looked up and smiled a tired, friendly smile.

Thanks, Stef.

That’s what she had said.

And then she kissed him softly on the cheek. She started to withdraw her face, then paused. Kopriva remembered that the silence then had been a loud one. Then she kissed his cheek again, softer and closer to his lips.

He kissed her on the mouth and they melted into each other.

Now it was after five in the afternoon and she was lying next to him. The smell of her body that filled his nostrils seemed like an accusation. He’d taken advantage of her, hadn’t he?

Kopriva shut the alarm off so that it wouldn’t wake her. He slipped out of bed and walked down the hall to the bathroom. As he stepped into the shower, his mind whirred with a confused jumble of images. He could see her crying at the coffee shop, her face streaked with tears. Then he saw her athletic body beneath him, her back arching as they made love.

Kopriva forced the image from his mind.

This was a mistake. He’d taken advantage of a woman while she was hurt and rejected.

But there’d always been something between them, hadn’t there? He and Katie always had chemistry, even back at the Academy. Since then, they’d been assigned to separate sectors on patrol. Both worked the north side all year and units were often called on to cross into each other’s patrol sectors. Kopriva enjoyed her friendship but had never considered anything beyond that. She was always dating someone, then got engaged. But maybe this just provided the opportunity for it to come out.

Kopriva shook his head. She’d been vulnerable. Tired. Cried out. He’d taken advantage. No question.

He slapped his hand angrily against the tile in the shower. Honor might have been an out-dated concept for some, but Kopriva adhered to it. It was his lifeboat in a sea of madness sometimes.

Had he just violated it?

Fifteen minutes later, Kopriva shut off the shower. No, he rationalized. He had not violated honor. What had happened wasn’t a mistake.

I’ve always cared about her. There’s always been something there.

Maybe only the timing had been the mistake. And there was nothing he could do to change that now. But overall, he saw this new development with her as a good thing, but one they should probably keep from their co-workers.

Kopriva toweled off and slipped on a pair of boxer shorts. He decided that he would make her breakfast. During breakfast, he would tell her how he felt. He’d let her know that he hoped this was the beginning of something nice.

He walked into the kitchen and removed a frying pan from the cupboard. He began warming it on the stove. In the fridge, he had enough eggs for an omelet. He removed the eggs along with a little cheese and some green onions. As the pan heated up, he walked to the bedroom to wake her in case she wanted to shower before she ate.

The bed lay empty with rumpled covers. Her clothes were gone.

2100 hours

Lieutenant Robert Saylor didn’t have to order the graveyard patrol shift to pay attention. As soon as he stepped behind the lectern of the roll-call room, conversation quickly tapered off.

He put aside a couple of stolen vehicle reports for later, then reviewed the homicide at the Qwik-Stop from the night before. “And that’s the big news, folks,” Saylor said. “The guy day shift nabbed was a copy-cat.”

“No kidding,” James Kahn muttered.

“Yeah,” Saylor said. “No kidding. Well, that also comes from the detectives at Major Crimes, who interviewed day shift’s guy. He is not Scarface. The M.O. he used was similar but not exact. The funny thing is, it was exactly the M.O. the paper published.”

That brought a few chuckles from the assembled troops.

“Imagine that,” Chisolm said to no one in particular.

“Yeah,” said Saylor. “Major Crimes also reviewed the security cameras in the QwikStop. Detective Browning confirmed that it was almost certainly the Scarface Robber. So if Scarface killed the clerk from last night, then he is obviously getting more dangerous. Be careful. Think about how you want to pursue him, whether on foot or in a vehicle.

“Last night’s scene was handled perfectly by patrol units. Just like then, first officer on scene is in charge. I don’t care if it is the newest recruit we got. Until a sergeant or myself can get on scene and be briefed, the first one on scene is site commander.”

Saylor glanced down at his notes. “The clerk evidently pulled a gun, so maybe Scarface won’t kill unless provoked. But who knows, so be careful.”

Saylor moved briskly through the stolen reports and several other less important administrative items, then turned things over to the sergeants for their platoon meetings. He turned and strode from the room.

At the Adam Sector table, Sergeant Shen repeated Saylor’s warning. “I would rather this guy get away than one of you get killed,” he said. “Do what you have to do, but be careful.”

The Adam Sector troops nodded in response.

Shen pointed to his right. “For everyone who doesn’t know him, this is Officer Jack Willow, who just graduated from the Academy. He went to the Seattle Academy on the west side of the state and not ours, so be patient with him.” Shen grinned as the group chuckled. “Welcome aboard, Officer Willow.”

Jack Willow cleared his throat. “Uh, thanks, Sergeant.”

Willow’s FTO, Officer Aaron Norris, sat to the recruit’s left. “Don’t get too used to his face.” He offered a sly smile. “They sent him to the axe-man first, so I could save the department some money in the long run.”

“Hey, what’s your shirt size, kid?” James Kahn asked. “I’ll buy it off you cheap when they send you packing.”

Everyone chuckled, except for Willow. His face bore the plastered on smile that rookies being hazed have shown the world since cops became cops.

“All right, enough,” Shen said with a grin. “You’ll give the boy a complex.” He dismissed the platoon.

In the sergeant’s office, Saylor waited for Shen. “I’ll be at a meeting for the early part of the shift. Hart is forming some sort of task force, and I’m supposed to give my input.”

Shen remained politically silent.

“I’d say I wouldn’t be long,” Saylor added, “but the Captain will be there. You know how Hart likes the sound of his own voice when he’s trying to impress a boss.”

Shen struggled not to smile. “Call me for coffee when you’re clear?”

“You got it.”

2140 hours

Katie MacLeod drove slowly along the residential street, glancing around, her eyes never still. Everything she saw registered in her mind, but being pre-occupied, it had little impact on her. She felt out of sorts. Embarrassed, actually. It hadn’t really been fair of her to slip out of Kopriva’s bed like that and slink home without a word. It made her feel like a slut.

But what was she supposed to do? She’d been upset and he had comforted her. It’s not like he took advantage, but things might not have happened if she hadn’t been so upset about breaking up with Kevin.

“Oh, who are you kidding?” she said aloud. She and Kopriva had always had some sexual tension. She’d just never acted on it because the situation was never right.

So what to do now? Katie sighed. She liked him. She would like to see him, but things had moved so fast. Then she ran out on him. Who knows what he thought about her now?

Besides, cop-on-cop relationships were difficult at best. Most of time, the stress from the job made the relationship twice as stressful. Of course, the flip side was that you had someone to talk to who actually understood.

Maybe she should buy him a cup of coffee and explain that they should just stay friends. That’d be the smartest thing. And the safest. After all, they had a good friendship and romance always seems to mess that up.

But she couldn’t do that, could she? Not with the feeling in her stomach right now. All that pent up emotion ever since the Academy had burst free and she couldn’t just put the genie back in the bottle.

More doubt crept in to Katie’s mind. Pent up emotion? Or rebound? Some of her affection for Kopriva was real, she knew that, but maybe the intensity came from being dumped. Possibly. Probably. Hell, she knew it did.

Katie sighed and tapped the steering wheel. She was on the rebound and acted like a slut with a decent looking guy who happened to be nice. The guy had a chance to get laid and took it. No harm done, but no great love affair, either, she realized.

Cut it off, Katie. Just cut it off before it ruins-

“Adam-116, Adam-112,” the dispatcher’s voice broke into her thoughts.

Katie reached for the microphone. “Adam-116, go ahead.”

“Adam-112, go,” came Chisolm’s calm voice.

“Adam-116, Adam-112, a domestic at 2114 W. Swanson. Complainant is a neighbor who wishes to remain anonymous. Complainant states that the man and woman who live at the address have been yelling loudly for the last fifteen minutes. We have no listing for the occupants of that address. 2114 W. Swanson, a domestic.”

“Copy.”

“Copy.”

Katie drove quickly but carefully to the call, using Belt Street, a residential arterial. Every time she went to a domestic, she felt a brief pang in her stomach, even after three years of police work. She remembered her mother screaming at father and how the police never came no matter how loud the screaming became. Things were different in today’s world, thank God.

She arrived at the house before Chisolm, parked a ways off and approached. The house, a small blue cracker-box, sat on a tiny lot. The scraggly upkeep of the lawn and the 1976 Monza parked out front screamed rental to her. She slipped through the fence gate, hoping there were no dogs or dog piles in the small yard. Once on the porch, she moved quietly to the side of the front door and stood next to it, listening. She couldn’t hear any yelling inside, though there seemed to be some movement. She waited for Chisolm to arrive.

Katie stared at the crack in the porch, following it as it spider-webbed across the entire porch. This house had seen some hard years. She wondered what the people inside would look like.

She heard a creak of leather and looked up to see Chisolm standing behind her at the foot of the steps. She forced herself not to jump in surprise. Chisolm grinned, his portable radio in his hand. “Adam-112, on scene,” he said in a muted tone, then slid the radio back into its holder on his belt.

“Pretty sneaky,” Katie whispered.

“Silent and Invisible Deployment,” Chisolm quoted from the Patrol Procedures Manual, still grinning.

Katie motioned toward the house with her head. “No talking inside. Just a little movement.”

Chisolm nodded. “A house this size, rolling over in bed would shake the whole thing.”

He stepped onto the porch and knocked on the door. There was a long pause, then a male voice asked, “Who is it?”

“Police,” Chisolm said in an authoritative voice. He gave Katie a wink. “Open the door, sir.”

Another pause and a muffled, “shit.” Then the door opened and a white male stood inside the entryway. The first thing Katie noticed was his size. The man towered over Katie by almost a foot and had several inches on Chisolm. She guessed him to be six-foot-three, at least. It wasn’t his height that struck her, though. The man was obviously a body-builder. His shoulders were thick and broad. A white T-shirt hugged his muscular chest. Cut off sleeves revealed bulging biceps and massive, veined forearms. One arm bore the faded blue color of a jailhouse tattoo.

Great, Katie thought. A ripped, wife-beating ex-con.

“Come on in,” he said, his voice neutral.

Katie and Chisolm entered the small house. “Who else is here, sir?” Katie asked.

“Just my girlfriend.”

“She lives here with you?”

“Yeah.” The man’s voice remained neutral.

“What exactly is going on tonight, sir?” Katie asked him.

A shrill female voice broke into the room. “I’ll tell you what’s going on here. He beat the shit out of me, that’s what!”

Katie turned to see a blonde-haired woman about five feet tall standing in the doorway to the bedroom. She couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds.

“I’ll talk with her,” Katie told Chisolm, and moved toward the woman. As she drew closer, she immediately noticed a red handprint on her right cheek. “Let’s talk in here, ma’am,” Katie said, motioning to the bedroom.

The woman stomped into the small room. Katie followed.

“What’s your name, ma’am?”

She crossed her arms. “Julie. Julie Krivner.”

Katie jotted the name into her pocket notebook.

“Date of birth?”

“What does that matter?” Julie’s voice rose shrilly. “I’m the victim here. Are you going to arrest that animal out there?”

Katie maintained an even voice. “Ma’am, we’ll do a complete investigation and if an arrest is in order, we will make it.”

“That sounds like cop bullshit to me.”

“It’s the truth.”

“I want him in arrested and I want him in jail now!” she shrieked.

“Relax, ma’am.”

“Relax?!” Julie’s voice exploded into a screech. “Don’t you tell me to relax. I was just beaten by that asshole in there. Now do your fucking job and arrest him!”

Katie struggled to keep her voice calm and held an open palm in front of the woman’s face. “Ma’am, that’s not how it works. We have to interview-”

“Oh, I see. You come in here and see his big arms and your little heart goes all mushy.” Julie put her hands on her hips. “You’re pathetic.”

Katie’s jaw clenched. “Listen to me! I don’t want your boyfriend. I am only here to investigate-”

“Oh, you don’t want him? So you’re a lez-bo, is that it? You probably want me, then.”

“No.” Katie said in a clipped tone. “I don’t. Now what happened here tonight?”

Julie shook her head. “Uh-uh. I don’t want to talk to any lez-bos.”

“Fine.”

Katie stepped out of the room. Chisolm and the body-builder both stared at her.

“Tom? You want to-”

“Sure.”

Jesus, everyone is interrupting me tonight. Katie strode toward the man as Chisolm brushed past her. She asked his name.

“It’s Steve.”

“Last name?”

“Marino. Like the quarterback.”

“You’re birth date?”

“November 22, 1967.”

“Do you work, sir?”

Steve nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I work construction as a laborer for Greenwood Builders.”

“Okay, Steve. What happened here tonight?”

“Officer, I’m sorry for the way she’s acting. She just-”

Katie interrupted, taking a brief pleasure in finally being the one to cut in. “It’s all right, Steve. Just tell me what happened.”

Steve took a deep breath and let out a huge sigh. “I can’t go to jail, officer.”

“No one said you were going to jail,” Katie said calmly. “We just have to find out what happened.”

“No, you don’t understand.” His voice had a pleading tone. “I’m on parole. If I go to jail for any reason, my parole will be revoked and I’ll go back to Walla Walla for three years.” He took another huge breath and let it out. Every muscle in his upper body tensed and released as he stared at the wall.

Katie felt a stab of fear. If he decided to fight, things could get ugly.

Just work the call, Katie.

“Steve, let’s worry about one thing at a time, okay?” She used her professional, but soothing tone.

“I can’t go back to the Walls, man,” Steve said. He trembled slightly and Katie watched his eyes tear up. “I’ll die before I’ll go back.”

“Steve? Take it easy, okay? It’ll be all right.”

Steve didn’t respond.

“Steve? One thing at a time, okay? We’ll work it out, you and me.”

Steve gave a nod.

“Good. Now tell me what happened.”

Steve let out another huge breath. “We’ve been together about eleven years. About nine years ago, I got in a bar-fight and killed a guy. They sent me up for first-degree manslaughter. I got nine years for that. Can you believe that? Nine years for defending myself in a bar-fight?”

“Sounds unfair,” Katie said calmly.

Steve looked at her, as if gauging her sincerity. Then he nodded. “Yeah. It was. I did six years as a model prisoner and made parole. Jules stuck by me the whole time. Or so I thought.”

“What’s that mean?”

Steve shrugged. “Lately, she’s been hounding me about everything. I don’t make enough money. She might have to go to work, says she’s tired of working after six years. She complains about the time I spend at the gym, too.”

“You spend a lot of time there?”

“Yeah,” Steve admitted. “Two hours a day, after work. But that is all I do. I work and I go work out at the gym, then I come home. I don’t go out drinking, nothing.”

“So why is she upset?”

“She’s not. I am.”

“Why?”

Steve let out another huge sigh. “I found out tonight she’s been sleeping with my best friend since I went away to prison. I pretty much caught them today.”

“You caught them in the act?”

He shook his head. “Not exactly. I wasn’t feeling too good today, so I skipped my workout. When I pulled up, my buddy was driving away from the house. When I came inside, she was still in the bed.” He looked down at his feet. “Plus, I could…the smell…it was in the air.”

Katie didn’t know what to say. She waited for him to continue.

After a moment, he said, “We avoided each other for about an hour, but eventually we started arguing. She blamed it on me. I told her she was a whore.” He looked up at Katie. “I didn’t mean it. Or maybe I did. I don’t know. She flew off the handle and started kicking me and hitting me. Then she called me a faggot. She said I probably liked it in the pen because I could have all the guys I wanted. Stuff like that.”

“She hit you?”

Steve nodded.

“Did she leave any marks?”

Steve gave her a look. “She’s five-foot, ninety pounds. What do you think?”

“I have to ask.”

“No. No marks.”

“All right. Then what happened?”

“I got mad. I have a bad temper. It takes me a while to get mad, but when I finally get there, I just explode. When she started saying that stuff about being a faggot, I just lost control, you know? I mean, I fought guys off for six years. I never got broke.” He pointed to the tattoo on his forearm. “See that? BSC. It stands for Brotherhood of the Southern Cross. I had to hook up with the asshole, Aryan bikers to stay alive in there. You think it’s easy being around those racist bastards?”

Katie shook her head. “I doubt it.”

“It ain’t easy at all,” he told her, “but it kept me from having to deal with a lot worse shit. I never punked out to anyone, not in six years.” He shook his head again. “After all that, then she goes and calls me a faggot?”

“I can understand that making you mad. Did you hit her then?”

Steve nodded. “Yeah, I did. I slapped her.”

“Once?”

“Yes. Just once. I even used my left hand.”

“Did anything else physical happen?”

“No. She ran into the bedroom, and I sat down in the chair. Then you guys showed up.” Steve’s shoulders slumped and he looked at the floor.

“Katie?” Chisolm was at her elbow.

There was nowhere else to move so they could confer privately, so they had to speak in codes.

“What do you have, Tom?”

Chisolm glanced at Steve, who was still staring at his shoes. He then tapped his cheek and motioned to Julie. “One-Edward,” he said quietly, using the radio clearance code for an arrest and booking. He nodded toward Steve.

Katie nodded. “Same here.”

Steve looked up at them. His calm demeanor was slipping. “Look, man. I know the law. You’re going to arrest me. But I told you, if I go to jail, my parole is revoked. I am not going back to the walls. No way.”

“Steve,” Katie soothed, “maybe your parole officer will give you a break.”

“That prick? Not a chance.”

Katie noted the intensity of Steve’s words. She considered requesting further backup, but didn’t want to tip him over. She sensed Chisolm’s presence behind her.

“You belong in prison!” Julie piped up from the bedroom doorway. “Faggot woman-beater.”

“Be quiet!” Katie told her.

“Don’t tell me what to do in my own house, you dyke!” Julie shot back.

Katie turned away from her. “Steve, listen. I know you’re not a criminal. Don’t be one now.”

“I’m not. I’m not a criminal,” Steve said, his voice tight. He stood up straight, his arms rigid.

Oh, Jesus, Katie thought. He’s getting ready to fight.

“I know you’re not,” she kept trying. “You were only defending yourself six years ago. And tonight, you just lost your temper for a minute.”

“I can’t go back,” Steve said, not listening to her. He swayed slightly with adrenaline. Katie could sense Chisolm moving forward slowly. She dropped her hand to her side, wrapping her fingers around her baton.

“Steve, listen to me. You can’t win-”

“You can never win!” Julie yelled. “You’re a goddamn loser, and you belong in prison, faggot!”

Katie shifted her legs as casually as she could, assuming a defensive stance and hoping it wasn’t obvious. She didn’t take her eyes off of Steve. His jaw clenched and his eyes darted from Julie to Chisolm to Katie and back to Julie again. His hands balled into fists. His breath came in ragged, whistling gasps. Katie wondered briefly if they would have to kill him.

“You.” Chisolm’s deep voice was deadly as he spoke to Julie. “Be quiet.”

Katie blinked, surprised when Julie obeyed. She didn’t have time to marvel at that, though. “Steve,” she said, trying to keep her voice even, “you can’t win here if you fight. We have a dozen cops on the way. We have mace, nightsticks, and guns. One way or another, you will be arrested. Then your parole officer will get a report that you resisted arrest, maybe even assaulted an officer, and he will definitely revoke you.”

Katie swallowed. If he planned to fight, she only had a few seconds left to talk him out of it. Chisolm stood beside her, silent. She pushed ahead, keeping her voice reasonable and soothing.

“If you go willingly, Steve, I can write in my report that you were not only honest, but entirely cooperative. When your P.O. reads that and you explain the rest of the circumstances, he might not revoke you.”

“He will. He hates me.”

“He might not.”

“He will.” Steve’s voice sounded flat and dead now. “I’m not going back.”

“Steve, I will even call him and explain things on your behalf. That might sway him, right?”

Steve studied her, his eyes softening slightly.

Katie continued. “Look at the situation. You’re working hard, you work out, you don’t drink, right? She is the one who is treating you like hell. She cheated on you. Anyone would get mad. It’s understandable. It wasn’t right to hit her. You know that and so do I, but it isn’t something that you should go back to prison for. If you fight us, though, that is definitely where you will go. If you cooperate here, I can put all that in my report. I can call your P.O. We can work things out.”

She watched him carefully.

“It’s your only chance, Steve.”

Steve stared at her intently throughout her entire speech. A long, tense moment of silence followed.

It didn’t work. He’s going to fight and someone is going to die here tonight.

When he spoke, he spoke carefully, the edge out of his voice. “You’d really call him and explain?”

Katie let out an inward sigh. “Yes. Absolutely.”

Steve sighed, then nodded slowly. “Okay. What do you want me to do?”

Katie directed him to turn around and quickly handcuffed him. It required two pairs of handcuffs linked together because of his size and broad back. The small, silver cuffs looked frail on his large wrists. Katie imagined that he could snap them if he wished.

“Steve, you made the right decision,” she told him.

“I hope so.”

“Is that how it works?” Julie chirped at Katie. “You are all willing to go to bat for a woman-beater?”

“Did you ever hit her before tonight, Steve?” Katie asked him quietly.

“No. Never.”

Katie turned to Julie. “He said you hit him tonight, too, Julie.”

“I did not. He’s a lying ex-con.”

“Has he ever hit you before, Julie?”

“Yes. All the time. I’m a battered woman.”

“What you are is a cheater who got caught,” Katie told her stiffly.

“We’re not married!”

Katie stared at her, disbelieving.

Steve spoke up, his voice neutral again. “Officer, can we go? I’d like to leave and never come back here again.”

“Sure.” Katie led him toward the door.

“YOU FAGGOT!” Julie screamed.

Steve stopped, turned his head slightly and said in the same even voice, “My mother was right about you, Julie. You’re just a little bitch.”

Julie gave a shocked sound.

“I agree,” Katie said, and led Steve out the door.

“I heard that, you dyke!” Julie screamed after her. “I am going to file a complaint! What’s your badge number?” She tried to follow them, but Chisolm stopped her.

“Ma’am,” he said in the same flat voice he had used before. “You might want to shut that sewer of yours, or I will take his word for it and arrest you for assault. Then you can make that complaint from jail. You understand me?”

Katie grinned at Julie’s silence.

“Good,” Chisolm said. “Now go back inside and close your door.”

Katie heard a moment of silence, the scuffle of feet, then a loud slam.

“I’m glad someone can shut her up,” Steve muttered.

Katie struggled not to laugh. Not only was the situation perversely funny to her, but the relief of stress from a few moments ago made her giddy. She barely managed to hold her laughter inside.

She reached her patrol car, searched Steve and put him in the back seat. When she closed the door, Chisolm appeared beside her again.

“Jesus, Tom, will you stop sneaking up on me?” she joked.

Chisolm grinned for a moment, then turned serious. “Well done,” he said with a nod. “Very well done.” Then he turned and walked toward his car.

“Thanks,” Katie said. She watched him go and felt a flush of pride. Chisolm was one of the most respected street officers on the department, if not the most. He didn’t throw compliments around lightly.

Katie slid into the driver’s seat of her patrol car. She felt good.

“Officer?”

Katie glanced at Steve in the rear-view mirror. “Yes?”

“Thanks.”

Katie nodded. “Okay, Steve. We’ll work it out.”

Steve nodded, then stared out the window.

Katie started the car and headed toward the jail. She felt a pang of guilt, because she knew that even with her phone call to Steve’s probation officer, he was almost certainly going to be revoked. She hadn’t lied to him exactly, but she’d sold him a false bill of goods. Was that all right? Did her half-lie serve a greater good, protecting her and Chisolm, not to mention Steve himself, from a dangerous confrontation?

She knew the answer was yes, but she couldn’t shake that small sense of guilt. Despite her elation at the success of the call and Chisolm’s compliment, it ranked as quite possibly the longest trip to jail she’d ever made.

2210 hours

Kopriva waited restlessly for the data channel to return his driver’s check. The car in front of him wasn’t a maggot car, but the woman blew through the light at Division and Indiana right in front of him, so he stopped her. Usually, he would have let her go with a warning.

Usually.

But tonight he was grumpy.

Katie had not even looked his way all through roll call. He watched for her down in the sally-port as he waited for a car, hoping to make a plan to get coffee at two or three in the morning, once things slowed down, but she didn’t show up before he had to leave.

“Baker-123.”

Kopriva clicked the mike, an informal response that most dispatchers frowned upon. But, Janice manned the data channel tonight, and she didn’t mind.

“Wilson is not in locally. DOL is clear through 1998 with lenses.”

Kopriva clicked the mike again. He’d already written the ticket for failing to stop for a steady red light. He exited his vehicle and approached Wilson. The date on her driver’s license put her at forty-three, but she looked ten years younger, dressed in slacks and a business-like blouse. He hadn’t smelled any alcohol on her breath and figured she just worked really late.

Or maybe she was fooling around with some guy. Who knew?

“Mrs. Wilson,” he recited, “this is a notice of infraction for failing to stop at a steady red light at Division and Indiana. Please sign here.” He held out the ticket book and a pen, indicating the line for her signature. “Signing is not an admission of guilt, only a promise to respond within fifteen days.”

“But that light was yellow,” she protested, not reaching for the proffered ticket book.

“It was red, ma’am.”

“Well, I would like to tell you my side of the story.”

“Ma’am, I don’t care about your side of the story. You failed to stop for the light. I am citing you. Please sign.” Kopriva did not raise his voice.

“That isn’t fair,” she told him. Her eyes narrowed and her face tightened.

“Ma’am, one of your options is to go to court and tell the judge your side of the story.”

“No. I won’t sign it.”

Kopriva paused, staring at her.

“I won’t sign it,” she repeated.

Kopriva suppressed a sigh. “Ma’am, if you do not sign this, I will be forced to write you a criminal citation for failing to sign a notice of infraction. If you refuse to sign that, you will be booked into jail.”

She looked at him, obviously shocked at the word ‘jail.’ “Oh, that is just ridiculous.”

“It’s the law.”

She considered, and then reached for the ticket book. She angrily scrawled her name on the ticket. “I want your name and badge number,” she insisted.

“It’s on the ticket,” Kopriva told her, handing her the driver’s copy. He walked briskly back to his car.

Sitting behind the wheel, he shut off the spotlight with his left hand and punched the button to extinguish the bright take-down lights on top of the car. The woman signaled, paused, and pulled out into traffic. Kopriva slid the ticket in the visor above him.

He didn’t feel any better.

He reached for his mike to clear the stop when a shrill tone broke over his radio.

2215 hours

Patrol Captain Michael Reott sat at the head of the table. He’d just finished a short introduction outlining what he hoped to see any task force accomplish. He also covered some of the pitfalls he hoped such an endeavor would avoid. Lieutenant Hart, Lieutenant Saylor and Sgt. Michaels occupied seats at the table with him. Michaels sat in for the vacationing Lieutenant Powell.

“So what options do we have?” Reott said, signaling that he’d finished talking for awhile.

Hart pounced on the opening. “Sir, the media is skewering us over this. We need to be high profile on this task force. Back them off a little bit.”

Reott paused, considering the logic.

Saylor disagreed. “Cap, the newspaper is going to bash on us no matter what. That’s a given, but the television media has been pretty fair. I mean, the guy has gotten away with how many armed robberies? Fourteen, fifteen?”

“Fifteen,” Hart supplied.

“Fifteen, then,” Saylor allowed. “Plus, he’s shot at cops and now he’s killed a guy.”

“What’s your point, Rob?” Reott asked.

“The point is we have to get this sonofabitch before he kills someone else. Telling everyone that we are forming a task force takes away the element of surprise. If he watches TV and sees a news report, he’ll be more cautious. We need to capitalize on his carelessness.”

Reott considered, but did not commit. “What about the copy-cats?”

Hart jumped in. “A highly publicized effort on our part will deter further copy-cats. They will be too afraid of getting caught.”

“What’s to fear?” Saylor asked. “This guy is fifteen-for-fifteen.”

“And the only copy-cat is oh-for-one,” Hart shot back.

Saylor shrugged. “Even so, you can expect more copy-cats the longer this goes. Which is why we have to shut this guy down.”

Reott looked at Michaels, who gave a shrug. “We need to catch him, that’s all I know. What are the detectives doing? We don’t want to step on their operations.”

Hart spoke up again. “My plan won’t have any negative impact on whatever the investigative division is doing.”

“Which doesn’t look like much,” Saylor said wryly.

Reott shrugged. “They’ve been as successful as we have.” He motioned to Hart. “Lay out your plan.”

Hart beamed. “Thank you, Captain. My plan is to ask for volunteers during the hours Scarface has hit the most, twenty-two hundred to zero two hundred hours. Seven total cars. Five cars will sit off on particular stores. We’ll rotate which ones throughout the shift. At the same time, two cars will cruise between the five selected stores as a mobile response to augment patrol. Radio silence is to be observed. All units will use their regular call signs if they have to break radio silence. A code-word will be used, which will be given out at roll-call. If a surveilling unit sees a robbery shaping up, they get on the air, call the code-word and location. Instead of a time-delay, we get started before the robbery is even completed.”

He leaned back, obviously pleased with his plan.

Saylor nodded his approval. “It’s a good plan. The unit on surveillance has to be extra careful, though, as far as engaging the suspect. Keeping a visual on him would be best, even if he gets out of the store before patrol arrives. At least this way, we might get a good perimeter set up and force him to go to ground. Then we could bring in the K-9 for a track.”

Reott pursed his lips. “Okay, but do you foresee any liability issues with that unit basically watching a robbery take place?”

“No,” both lieutenants responded simultaneously. Saylor motioned for Hart to continue.

“It’s a matter of officer safety, sir,” Hart told him. “We can’t expect a plain-clothes officer to engage an armed robber with no back-up, if all he’s doing is taking the money. We might take some heat in the press, but we’d come out all right.”

“If the guy starts shooting, that’s a different story,” Saylor added. “No cop will stand by while that’s happening.”

Reott, nodding, mulled over Hart’s explanation for a few moments, then looked at all three and continued. “I think we’ll go with Alan’s plan. It’s sounds like a good one and it’s better than the wait-and-react we’ve been doing.”

“Thank you, sir.” Hart said.

“Choose your people and brief them carefully,” Reott instructed. “I’ll okay the overtime with the Chief.”

“And the media?” Hart asked.

Reott considered, “Let’s keep this quiet unless the word on the task force leaks out. Then we’ll invite them in and give them the inside scoop if they keep it quiet until we catch the guy. Make ’em an ally for once.”

Saylor and Hart both nodded. Reott felt a sense of accomplishment for his diplomatic effort.

The phone rang. Michaels, being the junior man, automatically answered it. He listened for a few seconds, then replaced the receiver.

“He just hit again,” the sergeant said. “Number sixteen. Time delay is only two minutes.”

Damn, Reott thought. This guy is making us all look like fools. “Okay, Gentleman,” he said. “We have a plan. Do whatever it takes to catch this guy. You have my full support.”

Interlude

Fall 1994

“I don’t really believe in counseling, doc. That’s all.”

“Why is that?” The doctor kept any hint of disapproval out of his voice.

The man shrugged. “I think that it is the refuge of the weak. A man should be able to deal with his own demons.”

“And a woman?”

“Same thing.”

The doctor paused, considering. Thirty minutes had passed in the session and although the officer had begun to open up, little had been accomplished. He always had the option of requiring further sessions, but he knew full well how the administrators at the Police Department would interpret that. Still, the officer’s mental health rated as his primary concern, not his law enforcement career.

“Every man is an island, then?” he asked the officer.

The officer nodded. “Who can you truly count on? I’ve been hung out to dry before.”

“Beginning when?” The doctor asked, think that perhaps a look at the officer’s childhood would reveal something noteworthy.

The officer didn’t bite. “Let’s just say I learned to fend for myself a long time ago and leave it at that, all right?”

The doctor didn’t push the matter, though clearly something existed there. He returned to the previous point. “In your profession, you are required to help a variety of different people, correct? Many of whom are undeserving or whose irresponsibility has caused the situation which you now must deal with. Am I right?”

The officer nodded. “Very accurate.”

“Okay,” the doctor continued. “So let’s say there is a woman. She is very young, gets married. Her husband is abusive, but she won’t or can’t leave him. Maybe she has caused the situation or maybe she hasn’t, but now she is stuck. He hits her. You come to the scene and arrest the husband for assault. She is now free to take action. She is no longer a prisoner of her own fear. There is a window of opportunity for her, and it is your action that empowered her. Is this accurate as well, officer?”

“Yes. Sometimes.”

“Was it wrong of you to help her?”

“No.”

“Wrong of her to accept your assistance?”

“Absolutely not.”

“So now she can face her own demons.” The doctor leaned back and watched the officer’s face.

The officer remained impassive. Finally, he sighed. “I see your point.”

“Good.”

There was a pause, then the officer asked, “You want to hear something?”

“Of course.”

“I’m a little angry at the administration. They haven’t stood by me very well. And I did nothing wrong.”

The doctor detected bitterness in the officer’s voice. He could also sense a great deal more under the surface, but he expected that and didn’t see a problem with it.

“Go on.”

“Nothing more to say on that, doc. They should have been calling a press conference and damning the newspaper for the accusations it made. Instead, they open an IA investigation? And do you know the questions they asked me in IA? They all but called me a racist. It’s one thing coming from the jackals at the newspaper. It’s something else entirely when it comes from your own agency.” The officer shook his head. “I did my job and this is my thanks.”

“But you are here.”

“So?”

“So you do not intend to resign over it.”

The officer paused. “Probably not. Maybe.” He sighed heavily. “I don’t know.”

The doctor watched him for several long moments as the officer stared at his own shoes. He cast a surreptitious glance at his watch and decided to get to the heart of the matter.

“Tell me about the man you killed, officer.”

The officer looked up then, steel and fury in his eyes. “He tried to kill me. He’s dead. What else do you want to know?”